Lonely Mother
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: Molly's table always had to be full.


**A/N:** Written for the Secret Battle Competition, Round 2.

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**Lonely Mother**

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There were less people to cook for, but she took the same amount of time doing so. It was a ritual now, one she'd entertained since she'd been a little girl herself, chasing after her brothers who'd always get tussled and scraped and come crawling home with empty tummies she had the delight to fill. That number had grown a little when she married, but shrunk and shrivelled away thereafter when her two brothers turned up dead one day, bodies brought back in big black bags with strangers in solemn grey suits.

She'd been young then, but not that young. Out of school, newly married but still living at home with her parents because she and her new husband couldn't quite afford a house at that stage, nor were they quite ready for one.

A little later still, and it was just her husband she cooked for: just the two of them in their now little house that creaked and crackled but was still their house. And she cooked and cooked and filled it up with many a sweet smell until she could honestly say it smelt like home.

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The numbers began to grow again, fill up that little house they'd affection ally dubbed "The Burrow". First one son was born, then two, then three, then five…and the numbers continued until they thought they really had chosen too small a place for all those hearts.

But it didn't matter, because she could grin and laugh and scold over her pots and pans and wands and be the happiest mother in the world. And that number went on even after she was past the age of giving birth, when her children brought their friends home, each with healthy appetites with their own, or her husband came trotting down that well-walked path with a co-worker or other. And the numbers continued to grow when the war reared its ugly head again and tragedy crept too close…

But the people who ate at their table, ate by her hand, continued to grow. Order Members, collecting at her house now that their original stronghold was gone. Her children's' friends still – and then distant family members and people she'd never met in a flurry on her first child's wedding day. The war still loomed, but she still had her happiness there: all her children, and all those other faces smiling at her, blessing her food.

**.**

The wedding was where things started slipping back, or perhaps it was before. No, it was before, she thought to herself as she peeled a carrot stick. Easily done by magic, and often she did use magic to help. But there was something to be said for hard labour, and it made the thinking process a more focused one.

It was before, because Percy had walked out of their family almost two years before. Maybe _that_ was the start, the first time in a while she'd stared at an empty spot at the dining table, one that no amount of guests could fill. Even if the guests themselves increased in number they couldn't fill the hole left by far closer flesh and blood.

And then there was the death of Dumbledore, many things: their hero, their savoir, their wise sage – but also a frequent visitor at their tale, and now he was gone as well. That was a strong mark indeed, a knife through the protective veil they'd thought they'd still been behind…

But still she kept on cooking, for her family and the stream of visitors that increased in number and cause, because life went on. And the visitors came: Order members originally coming to pass messages or exchange tasks…but then it was to meet, because the Burrow and her warm cooking that could fill their bellies became their meeting place. And the wedding came: the wedding that should have made her the happiest mother of all, that fateful day her eldest son married the woman she loved…

But it was ruined when the Death Eaters arrived, and thought there was no death she was left sorrowfully looking at the spoilt food left behind and the empty party chairs. And it was suddenly quiet after that: only her family, and a few of them even absent too: Bill, married now and living alone; Ron, gone with Harry; Ginny at Hogwarts; Percy…gone, just gone.

But she cooked all the same, took the same amount of time and imagined her table the way it used to be, bustling with life and activity and even all those bits of trouble she'd taken so often for granted.

**.**

And like all sad tales, the war eventually came to a close, but not without a price. Percy and Ron came back, but she lost another child in the process: Fred, dear Fred, buried with his last smile still on her face.

But as she'd said before life went on, through thick and thin, tears and smiles and grieving times. And she cooked on, because she had other mouths to feed, bellies to fill, soul-filled energies to renew so they could turn around and smile and her and make her own heart nice and warm. And slowly, the number of people at her table grew again. Her children married, one by one. Eventually Harry and Hermione were permanent presences: her children in law.

And then the grandchildren were born, livening things up even more. From Victorie all the way to little Lily, they came and sat on her lap and hugged her legs and ate upon her table. And they drifted off slowly, yes, those families that built their own homes and lived elsewhere, but her table looked so empty without them at least one family had to visit every day.

Often, her children joked she should have been one of those muggle charity workers, who fed the hungry homeless on the streets, what with how feverishly she fed them all. But like her they had things they needed to keep on doing to keep their lives stable ones, so they were tiny laughs of understanding…and maybe a little regret. Regret they couldn't have done things a little differently, or saved someone, or some little thing like that that couldn't really be helped – and then it'd be time to grieve again.

But she'd have baked goodies at the edge of their plates to cheer them up when they did, so they could eat their fill of yumminess and smile at her and stuff her heart full.


End file.
